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gave me elaborate instructions as to where to stash it for the night. These instructions and directions were so complex that even had they been delivered in English I would have gotten lost; essentially I had to take my bike through another labyrinth of pathways to a small courtyard with a gate. I was to ask for a woman named Maria Luisa, who would let me hide my bicycle there when I explained that I was from the Pension Loretta. This ordeal took another forty-five minutes of more wrong turns, more directions from strangers, until, finally, I found the proper courtyard and, having dutifully rung the proper bell, summoned said Maria Luisa, and with much explanation was permitted graciously to enter. Here along with a number of suspicious looking cats I deposited my bike and said I would be back in the morning.
    â€œWhere are you going on that thing?” Maria Luisa asked.
    â€œScotland,” I said.
    â€œScotland? Very cold there,” she said. “I wouldn’t go if I were you.”
    This was becoming litany.
    That night I had more anguilas al horno , a carafe of local tinto , and a slice of local bull meat in a brown sauce with green peas at a small local restaurant where there were no other tourists. After dinner I went promptly to bed and was asleep in seconds.
    A huge cat fight broke out beneath my window in the middle of the night and I woke up, so tired and confused I had to sit up to figure out where I was. I smelled mildew and cats, and felt the moist air of sage and salt with a hint of sharp geranium—Andalusia, I thought, Al Andalus of ancient days.

Two
    The Breath of the Sun
    One of the best spots in all of Western Europe to get a sense of the northward migration of birds is the Coto Doñana, a vast marsh, similar to the American Everglades, that stretches west from the banks of the Guadalquivir River. The sanctuary is one of the great stopover places for migrants moving north from Africa and also an area known for resident eagles, lynx, wild boar, and thousands upon thousands of ducks and geese.
    On my way there, I stopped at Jerez for lunch and got into a discussion with a man who told me that I would have to get written permission to enter the Coto Doñana. Spanish information, directions and such like, are not always entirely accurate, and I took his advice with a grain of salt and rode on, confident that I would be able to find a place to stay and gain entrance. But at another café stop (I find it hard to pass up an inviting outdoor café) I heard the same story. By late afternoon, I arrived at the small crossroads of El Cuervo. There I spotted a likely pension in an olive grove at the end of a long drive, secured a room, and went for a walk in the fading light, watching the bats flit through the trees and feeling satisfied and healthy. I slept for a while before dinner and then met a man at the restaurant bar who told me there were lions in the Coto Doñana.
    â€œLions?” I asked, thinking I was missing something in translation. I thought he meant the Pardelle lynx, which is known to occur there.
    â€œNo, lions,” he insisted. “I myself have seen them.”
    This begat a great discussion as to which could win in a battle, a lion or a tiger.
    â€œThe lion scratches his enemies to death in a fight,” he explained. “The tiger grabs with his claws and then bites. The tiger will always win.”
    This brought him to the question of the Roman amphitheater and, as usual, the glorious days on the Iberian Peninsula and the arrival of the Moors. I wondered if he was perhaps using a metaphor for the Moors and the Christians with his lion story.
    This same man confirmed the fact that the Coto Doñana was closed to visitors.
    As it turned out my informants were right. An official at a tourist bureau in the next town explained that in order to get into the Coto Doñana I would have to get a permit from the central office in Seville. Undeterred, since I was